


Green is Green

by fortymaliks



Category: Bandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortymaliks/pseuds/fortymaliks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a 'bandom boys at Hogwarts" AU.</p><p>"In the metaphor that uses black and white to describe dichotomies, Spencer has always gotten a little lost. If it had been left up to the majority of the wizarding world, the colors that describe the two entities of good and evil would be as follows; every other color and green."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green is Green

It's not that Spencer thinks Charms are... below him, exactly. It's that he's bored. The endless swishing and flicking of his wand seems so mundane compared to the allure of the wandless magic he knows they'll be learning soon, and he doesn't really have that many teapots to mend. Mostly the servants do that for him, but no, hey wait, he still doesn't think charms are below him, like that they're something that a Smith could absolutely not ever think of doing. It just doesn't seem necessary, and nobody whose ever crossed path with Spencer James Smith V would dream of calling him less than practical. So, no, he doesn't feel that Charms are below him.

However, casting his eyes sideways, he can see that that is exactly how Blaise Zabini feels. Blaise stifles a yawn and then sends death threats Spencer's way with a look that's taken years to perfect. Purebred Slytherin boys do not yawn.

William Beckett twists gracefully into Spencer's lap, feline features arching as he curls a hand around Spencer's neck. "Spencer", he hisses, more singsong than expelled air, "when are you going to let me show you a good time?"

Spencer snorts and pushes William unceremoniously off of him. "When I honestly believe that you even know what the word good means."

William cackles from the floor, but Spencer extends a hand and hauls him up. He's used to William's advances by now.

It's not that William's not attractive, Spencer muses, staring at the pale sliver of skin that shows itself where Williams robes hang haphazardly down his front. It must have taken some maneuvering to get any skin showing at all, but then, William Beckett is a cunning person. In the five years Spencer's been at Hogwarts, he's learned not to underestimate any of his classmates.

In first year, Draco Malfoy had called Theodore Nott a very derogatory name for being completely apathetic towards all forms of Quidditch, which was apparently not an attitude young Malfoy had previously encountered towards his favorite sport. There had been implications about Theodore's bloodline and names with sharp consonants that Spencer had found completely tactless, even at eleven.

There had also been a week of classes free of Draco, after Theodore hexed him oblivion while Blaise had watched with his arms crossed. It doesn't often take a Slythetin boy more than once to learn a lesson, and the lesson was clear. Underestimation gets you nowhere.

William dusts himself off, curls his mouth up into a crooked smirk. "One of these days, Spencer Smith." He threatens, lacing the words with what Spencer knows are his best seductive tones. He'd heard it more than enough times to recognize the low drawl for exactly what it is.

"You know I'm saving myself for marriage." Spencer purrs back, because two can play at that game, and Blaise snorts when William grins, eyes flashing deeper green than usual.

***

The Smith manor is large, which Spencer's never noticed, because he's become accustomed to it. All his friends had houses similar in stature. The lawns were green, the hedges immaculate. He strides out towards the garden, the gentle swell of conversation reaching him as soon as he steps foot out the door and draws nearer to the place where his mother is having tea in the garden.

"Ah, Spencer," Ginger Smith greets him, "I was just telling Zacharias here about your travel plans."

Zacharias Smith is a cousin of Spencer's, and a Smith is never rude to a relative. Spencer momentarily mourns the fact that his tongue will be sore tomorrow from biting it. His dear, dear cousin is a Hufflepuff.

And he's brought a friend.

Ryan Ross is a skinny Ravenclaw who Spencer's never once stopped to even consider outside of the time he had to pass him the Honey Dew essence in Potions in third year. Sitting at the table beside Spencer's mother, he looks confident, defiant even.

Spencer fights down his sigh. Hufflepuffs are fond of interhouse fraternization.

"I didn't know we were having guests today, mother." Spencer's voice is cautiously light, even as he narrows his eyes in Zacharias' direction. His mother's not fooled, of course, but it's the thought that counts.

"Spencer, this is George Ryan Ross," she says, and years of practice allows Spencer to pick up the warning wrapped around the words.

"The third, even," Zacharias intones, amusement crinkling around his eyes. Ginger Smith's motherly vocal patterns must match those of her sister's, because it seems Zacharias could recognize them as well.

"That's correct," Ginger coos, smiling at the two boys, "Ryan will be our guest here for the next year or so. He will sleep in the west wing. It seems his father is going out of town for an indeterminate length of time."

Spencer knows what this means, he's never been anything that could even slightly resemble an idiot. It means that, like Spencer's own father, the esteemed George Ryan Ross senior is hiding from Aurors, lest he garner himself an extended stay in Azkaban. Spencer quickly shakes the thought that maybe he's underestimated Ryan Ross out of his head.

"I trust that you will do everything possible to keep him comfortable." Spencer nods absently, momentarily forgetting about the imminent intrusion into his life, thoughts thrust into a place that was growing all too familiar.

Things were changing in the Wizarding world, in Spencer's world, growing darker and more volatile by the moment. Spencer had always known what his father had believed; he'd been raised with ideas he shudders at, knowing things he could never tell anyone. His father's work had always been more of a way of life for the Smith family, mantras pounded into his head until he supposedly had no choice but to accept them as truths. Ancient. Strong. Pure. Better.

Unlike certain blond-haired, pointy-nosed nitwits, Spencer was _not_ his father. It seemed to him that the path to success was in careful consideration of actions, rather than blind faith in faulty, outdated concepts.

***

Ryan Ross has only been a resident in the Smith manor for a few days when he lets himself into Spencer's room and collapses onto his bed.

Spencer blinks, book still open in his lap. Ryan Ross has still got his boots on. Said boots are now resting on Spencer's favorite down comforter. Spencer blinks. He's just not sure what to do in a situation like this; it's not one he's ever been confronted with.

"Ugh, what a day. You're family are... well, they're not nice, I can't even make myself say it, but they're interesting."

Spencer makes a noise that sounds not unlike "nngh?" when Ryan pulls a pillow out from behind his head and throws it to the floor. The _floor_. Spencer scrambles off the bed.

Spencer waits until he feels certain he won't stutter unattractively before he opens his mouth for the first time since Ross' intrusion. "I wasn't aware we were friends."

"Well, you didn't really think about it."

"You're correct on that one," Spencer glares, folding his arms and cocking his hips. The stance being one of the only things he inherited his father, it'd stuck no matter how many times his mother warned about bad posture.

"I've decided we can be friends." Ross says calmly, waving a dismissive hand and failing to glance up from his journal. "Once you've learned to judge peers based on the quality of their words and not their house colors, you'll realize that we really do have a lot in common."

He spares Spencer a look, sweeping his eyes from the page in front of him, which is covered in illegible black scribbles. "Friends, Spencer Smith. So begins your foray into life beyond the green room."

Spencer opens his mouth to comment, before closing it again. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, but he really has no appropriate response to that.

***

Spencer's managed to mix what is supposed to be a tumbler of Eternity Draught into a gray, fermented sludge that smells quite a bit like something he'd encountered during Care of Magical Creatures in his second year.

No matter how much William stares into his potion, pretty lips pursed into his best pout, his concoction looks for all the world exactly like Spencer's.

"I think," Blaise begins from Spencer's left, "that we may possibly have to admit our defeat in this, boys."

William slouches further, blows his bangs off his head. Spencer bites his tongue to keep from commenting on his posture.

A quick glance around the room tells Spencer that none of his fellow Slytherins have managed anything that looks the slightest bit hopeful.

Across the room, the potions of the Ravenclaw side are hissing happily in their cauldrons, popping and snapping. Spencer's sure the liquid is mocking him.

He catches Ryan Ross' amused glare through the crowd. Ryan rolls his eyes, and looks like he's having a serious internal battle, before he shoves back from his table and makes his way towards Spencer.

William hisses and corrects his slouch as Ryan draws near, Blaise tenses at his other side.

"Spencer Smith," Ryan's drawl is amused, Spencer can hear it even through the monotone. "You look like you could use a hand."

William Beckett is known for his quick-draw, but Spencer's better known for his ability to read people, so he catches William around the wrist before it even gets into his pocket.

He squeezes so tightly that he can almost hear William's soft exhalation, but he doesn't look at anybody but Ryan when he say, "I really could."

***

Spencer stares down anyone who might dare say anything to him about his newfound friendship with Ryan Ross, Ravenclaw. He knows they think about it, Draco Malfoy's sneer seems etched deeper into his face whenever Spencer passes him in the common room lately and he hears whispers, tiny snippets of hissing conversation. It's not new, not really. In these circles, there are always whispers, no matter how many times they'd all attest to the impoliteness of the gesture.

Theodore mentions it once, Spencer figures that it's because Blaise can't be trusted to open his mouth on the subject without saying how he really feels. He knocks a knee against Spencer's in the great hall over dinner. Spencer looks up; Theodore Nott does nothing by accident.

"It's not my place to disapprove," Theodore says, low enough only for Spencer's ears, "but I will say this. You let one in, you let them all."

"Like vermin, you mean?" Spencer hisses back, letting a practiced venom creep into the edges of his voice. He knows that Nott will catch his meaning, even though Spencer knows Theodore isn't one to judge as quickly as some of his more pro-pureblood advocate friends.

"I'd advise you to drop the defensive, Smith." Nott says, "Your weakness is showing." He stands from the table, mumbling his pardon to the rest of their housemates. Blaise follows.

***

There's a resounding crash, a streak of limbs and stray "oomphs", and a tangle of red, yellow and robe comes crashing to the bottom of the fifth floor stairs at Spencer's feet.

"Ow," says a voice from under the rubble.

He's really got no intention of waiting to see how any of this turns out, but the offending wizard is blocking the staircase, and Spencer is meeting Blaise in the library.

An arm protrudes from the robes, "a little help here?", and well, it's not like Spencer would help in any instance, but he's especially at a loss here, so he doesn't rush to the guy's aid.

A head appears, finally; short, unruly hair and a bespectacled face that looks much too happy considering the tumble the kid's just taken. The twinkle in his eyes fades slightly when he sees that his would-be-rescuer is Spencer.

"Oh," the guy says, springing to his feet, "nevermind. I'll just..." He dusts off the front of his robes, kneels to pick up his books.

Spencer's never really been one of those wizards, a Draco Malfoy who believes that Slytherin is the be-all and end all, but it's been his experience that most stereotypes are based in truth. He likes to soothe any and all accusations that his brain might make that he's more like Malfoy than he'd like to admit by reminding himself that he's got Ryan, now, but it doesn't do much.

It's part good upbringing and part in defiance to the generalization that this kid has just made about Slytherins that has Spencer going to one knee to help him scoop up books. When Spencer pushes the volumes into his arms and sweeps his bangs off his forehead, the kid stares with huge eyes.

Spencer almost shrugs before catching himself and he moves to go around him. He's made it up two steps when he hears, "thanks, Spencer" from behind him.

He's been in several cross-house classes with this guy over the last seven years, but since he can not remember his name, he pretends not to hear him and continues up the stairs.

***

Seven years of Hogwarts and Spencer hadn't even bothered to wonder what the kid's name was, but now that he knows, he sees Brendon Urie everywhere. In the hall between classes, reaching for the same Porean root in Potions, across the hall at suppertime.

It's with disgust that he watches him, certainly not interest. Disgust and possibly a morbid fascination. They say a person's eyes are drawn to disasters, and Urie is certainly that; he stumbles around without a care for where he's going or what he's doing. Pure inertia exploding everywhere, and he's lucky that his arms and legs seem to be accustomed to catching himself. Not that Spencer's noticed.

Another thing Spencer certainly hasn't noticed is the way Brendon Urie's robes sometimes hang lopsidedly off his body, the neck hanging down so that smooth skin is visible above the neckline.

"Smith, why do you keep gaping at the Gryffindors? What could possibly be worth looking at?" Draco Malfoy sneers the question at him between delicate bites of pudding.

"Nothing." Spencer insists, drawing his mouth into a tight line and trying to remember that.

***

Spencer's standing with Ryan; he's managed to lose Blaise for a rare moment, Theodore is nowhere to be found, Draco's off bitching about a bespectacled savior of the Wizarding World and Spencer's managed to find Ryan Ross.

It's a breath of fresh air in an atmosphere seeped in negativity, heavy with tradition, manners and bitter feuding.

Suddenly, Ryan is accosted from behind by a ball of energy, long arms come around his neck and cling. 

"Ryan, Ryan Ross!" Brendon Urie screeches, and there's a Hufflepuff Spencer recognizes standing, sheepish grin firmly in place, off to the side a bit.

"To what," Ryan deadpans, even as he pries Brendon's hands from his neck with what looks to be practiced ease, "do I owe this pounce?"

"He's been into the sugar quills," the Hufflepuff says, eyes guilty, "I couldn't stop him. _Nothing_ can stop him."

Ryan groans as Brendon lets out a peel of manic giggles, "Jon," he says with a long suffering sigh, "you _know_ better than that."

Jon, the Hufflepuff (Walker, it dawns on Spencer, that's his name), raises his hands in defense. "No power on earth could have stopped that."

Jon Walker is talking, telling Ryan something about Quidditch or muggle studies or _something_ , but Spencer doesn't even register it because he's too busy staring at Brendon's spit slick, sugar-stained lips. In disgust, obviously.

Spencer stuffs his hands into his pockets, and takes a step backwards. "Uh," he stutters, unattractively, "I've got to, um."

He spins around as Brendon's eyes scrunch into a frown and doesn't feel like himself again until he's on the stairs down to the dungeon.

***

Spencer hates making excuses, usually doesn't feel the need to do so. He also isn't a fan of pointing fingers, but truth be told, Spencer is in the library researching his overdue potions theme and it's all Draco Malfoy's fault. As he forces himself to think about something that isn't stabbing Malfoy's eye out with his wand, something like gillyweed essence, the door opens and Brendon Urie bustles in. He spots Spencer, just manages to tramp down on the grin that threatens to bloom and drops his books on the table next to him.

This isn't really Spencer's night.

"Hi," Brendon says brightly. Spencer blinks.

"Hello."

"Potions theme?" Brendon asks, nudging Spencer's volume with his elbow. Spencer blinks again, not quite sure how he and Brendon got this familiar.

"No, I'm writing a novel. Romance, you know. Pure smut."

Now it's Brendon's turn to blink.

"... I was kidding."

"No, yeah, I know that." Brendon laughs suddenly, tilting his head to the side. "I just didn't know Slytherins _did_ that. I was just... I think I like it."

"You like it when Slytherins joke?"

"I like it when you joke."

"Oh...kay." Spencer breathes almost sharply, pulling his volumes closer to his chest in a move that is most certainly to deflect any further conversation and definitely not in order to stop his heart from throbbing out of his chest cavity. 

He ducks his head as Brendon beams at him, and spends the next half of an hour trying to ignore Brendon's quiet humming and the way he licks his quill when he concentrates.

Spencer finally cracks when he hears him sing something, the slightest bit under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "alms, alms for a miserable woman."

"For the love of Circe, were you dropped on your head as a child?" Spencer realizes that he could possibly have spared Brendon some of the venom, but honestly. Celestina Warbeck, Britney Spears, Cher, and now show tunes.

Brendon actually looks apologetic, as if he hadn't realized that he had made any noise at all. "Sorry," he says, sheepishly, "I just don't really like silence."

It's late and Spencer's tired. He's also on edge about his theme, and it really isn't Brendon's fault. Since Ginger Smith did not raise a heathen, Spencer does the only thing he can think of to dispel the sad creases that have appeared at the edges of Brendon's eyes. He apologizes.

"I'm sorry, Brendon," Spencer releases the words begrudgingly, in a soft woosh of air, "It's been a long day."

Brendon's smile leaps back to his face with renewed vigor. "Wanna talk about it?"

Spencer shakes his head, a tiny movement, and can't help but reflect Brendon's grin back to him. "It's really not that big of a deal. Let's just say that being a classmate of Draco Malfoy is extremely trying."

Brendon scowls, almost comical. "They should probably induct every single Slytherin in your year into the Order of Merlin for putting up with him."

The comment catches Spencer off guard, and he laughs as he nods his head in vehement agreement.

"Oh," Brendon's smile is wide, "I like that better."

"Like what better?" Spencer says, letting his chuckling fade into a comfortable lull. He's feeling open, actually, a lot better than he had been earlier.

"I like it better when you laugh, Spencer." Brendon says, smiling matter-of-factly before he stands and gathers his books. "Good luck with potions," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears around a stack of volumes, "see you around."

***

He can actually pinpoint the exact moment that he decides to stop lying to himself. He's walking down the hallway and forgets himself for the slightest moment, spotting Brendon's hopeful smile as he passes. Brendon's eyes light up when Spencer returns it, a blush starting at the nape of his neck, he ducks his head adorably.

 _He's gorgeous_ , Spencer thinks to himself, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks even as he keeps walking, _I want him to be mine_. And then, immediately, _oh fuck_.

***

"'It grows like fancy flowers, but it goes nowhere'?" Ryan's voice interrupts the heavy silence.

Spencer starts, breath catching in his throat. They're at the Smith manor, home for a long weekend Holiday for them to do extra N.E.W.T preparation.

"You know, it's rude to read over people's shoulders." His arms cover his parchment in an automatic move that isn't really necessary.

"Oh come off it, you've perfected the science of being rude while actually appearing polite. I'm onto you." Ryan flops down onto his bed, a move which, several months previous, would have had Spencer cringing and calling for a house elf. It's welcome now, despite the fact that Ryan had entered his room without permission and is still wearing his shoes.

Spencer snorts and trains his eyes back to his paper, finishing the last sentence of his Herbology theme.

"Very nice, Spencer Smith, but a bit poetic for Professor Sprout, don't you think?" Spencer ignores Ryan, rolling up his finished product and tosses it to the floor.

"To what do I owe this interruption?" 

"It's an invitation," Ryan grins, playing aimlessly with the scarf at his neck. "Also, a warning of sorts. A head's up."

Spencer quirks an eyebrow.

"I've got guests coming over. Guests of the non-Slytherin variety."

"Merlin, I hate you."

"You dropped that guise weeks ago, Smith. We're friends. And friends warn each other, so here I am."

"Thanks a million." Spencer grumbles, his head already running through a list of curses that he might be able to escape the blame for.

"You know what else friends do," Ryan continues, "They tolerate. They tolerate the friends of other friends."

"Right," Spencer agrees, nodding. Ryan's not buying it.

"No curses."

"Fuck." The Muggle swear feels appropriate on Spencer's tongue.

"A million chocolate frogs if you refrain from Bat-Bogeying Brendon."

Spencer pales at the name. He can feel his heart skip and his palms start to get sweaty, and he really, really does not know why. More importantly, though, he hopes Ryan doesn't notice. "Brendon?" he goes for casual, and is pretty sure he achieves it.

Ryan nods, showing no sign of having picked up on the new speed at which Spencer is inhaling and exhaling. "Brendon Urie. He's a Gryffindor in our year."

"I know him." Spencer says, waving his hand dismissively, getting up off the bed. "And yes, alright, have whoever you want over, I promise, no hexing. No cursing, not even an off glance, will that make you happy?"

Ryan nods and strides to the door, smiling quietly to himself as though he's happy with how the conversation went. Spencer finds out why when he gets to the door and adds, "well, fabulous, because I'm also expecting Pete Wentz", slipping out the door before he can hear Spencer's wail of despair.

***

Spencer locks himself in his bedroom and casts several wards at the door, but it doesn't stop the horrifyingly obtrusive noises that accompany Pete Wentz from seeping underneath of it.

He can feel the beginnings of a headache at the base of his skull, and he knows better than to even attempt any sort of magical remedy while it's in such early stages. Instead, Spencer opts for a short walk through the gardens.

As far as Spencer's aware, the only reason that the Slytherin inner-circle holds Gryffindor as their collective number one enemy is because they would feel embarrassed even _pretending_ that Hufflepuff was worth their energy.

Jon Walker is no exception, but it's not because he's as stupid as the stereotypes color Hufflepuff students to be. Instead, it's because he's... well, as far as Spencer can see, nobody in the world hates Jon Walker, not even Draco Malfoy.

Spencer finds him outside in the garden, holding the boxy contraption that Spencer knows is a muggle camera. He's staring at the fireflies that Ginger keeps, watching as they circle and dive, trails of light following them as if they were moving in slow motion.

He pauses, considering turning around and retreating back to his room. He keeps going when he figures that all he was looking for was some quiet and that Jon probably wouldn't mess with that. Also, Pete Wentz is inside.

"Hi." Jon says as he approaches, using his foot to kick at the chair beside the one he's sitting in, turning it to Spencer, motioning for him to sit down. Spencer marvels that Jon could be so comfortable as to offer him a seat in his own home, but he finds to his surprise that he's amused instead of bitter.

"Hello." He says, dropping into his seat. He's not quite comfortable enough to let Jon Walker see him slouching low like he wants to, so he stays upright. Jon's watching him, it feels to Spencer like he's assessing him, wondering whether to proceed with caution.

"Staring is impolite." Spencer crosses his arms in front of him, ruining any superiority his statement may have made with the equally impolite gesture.

Jon just smiles a lazy smile and motions to his camera. "Can I take your picture?"

Gritting his teeth so as not to shoot back an _I don't know, can you?_ , Spencer just nods.

"Awesome," Jon says, "the light here is just, you know?" Spencer has no idea, but he sinks back into his chair and relaxes his arms.

The flash pops once, blinding Spencer momentarily, once, and then again and again.

They sit in silence, flash popping ever so often, illuminating the dusk. It's not until Jon sets the camera down, asks him about his mother's lightening bugs that he realizes he's actually comfortable enough to answer without an ounce of acidity.

"My mother is fascinated by the things," he tells Jon. "The only magical creature that is actually known to muggles. Whenever they discover something unexplainable, the attribute it to science, miracles. Ridiculous."

Jon sits back and listens, his face interested, serene. Spencer continues.

"They're actually dying out, because of the artificial light being produced. Muggle electricity makes it impossible for mating pairs to find each other, whereas usually they're the only thing lighting up the darkness."

"That's sad," Jon muses, but he says nothing more.

"It is," Spencer agrees, and they sit.

***

Since Spencer's father had left town, there has been a rule in the Smith manor regarding Spencer James Smith IV's possessions and residences. This rule has been unspoken by both the young Spencer James Smith and his mother, but they've both manages to follow it without exception or question. The rule is as follows: do not touch. Do not step foot. Offices, studies, libraries, all off-bounds, left exactly how the Smith patriarch left them.

Amoung these spots and things that Spencer wouldn't dare look upon, let alone touch, is a mahogany cabinet with gold trimmings. It's located at the back of the study on the main floor. It contains exotic and rare muggle liquors imported from as many exotic points around the globe as Spencer can name.

Spencer comes into the house slightly disoriented, flashes still fading behind his eyelids from Jon's camera's bright white pops, and he hears Pete Wentz. He hears Pete, he hears the dry lull of Ryan's voice, Brendon's laugh, and he can't really stop his feet from following the sounds.

He finds the door to his father's study open wide.

His heart's been behaving badly lately, betraying and reminding, and not working quite right, but nothing his heart has done so far is anywhere near the feeling of the clench in his chest and the panic rising into his throat.

"You," Spencer manages, stepping into the doorway. Brendon's eyes are wide and happy, he's draped across Pete Wentz's lap. Several bottles lie scattered around them, one on it's side, empty but for the drops that Spencer's meticulous eye can see slipping out.

He spins suddenly, words lying dead in the air. He's pretty good at knowing his limits, and getting out of there before he says or does something he'll regret is a top priority. 

Brendon doesn't know Spencer very well, though, and he calls after him.

Brendon catches up to him in the hallway; Spencer feels the crook of his elbow grasped in a firm grip, feels himself being spun around.

Brendon's skittish, drunk. "Spencer, I'm really sorry, we didn't think..."

"Get your filthy, mudblood hands off of me!" The words leave Spencer's lips without so much as a thought, his teeth clenched together. His hands fist, uncurl and fist again.

"Spencer!" Jon shouts, coming into the hallway at the same time as Pete and Ryan.

Brendon doesn't even blink at the others, just keeps his gaze locked on Spencer's. "Spencer, I..."

Spencer is notoriously thoughtful, calm. He's collected and together. When he hits Brendon square in the eye, he's none of these things.

He hasn't been watching Brendon Urie long enough to know him completely, but it's been long enough that Spencer knows that he wears his emotions on his sleeve, in his eyes and entirely out there for people to witness. It's not the blow, but the words that slip from Spencer's tongue that make Brendon's entire face fall, his shoulders square and then sink in defeat. He doesn't even pretend it doesn't hurt, just steps back, one step, two steps, into Jon's hand at the small of his back. He looks devastated, heartbroken, and what really surprises Spencer is how quickly his own heart mimics the sentiment.

Spencer opens his mouth to try and say something, anything, to take it back, but Brendon's already being ushered from the great room, Jon leading his way. Even Pete Wentz's face is twisted into a menacing glare that would rival Professor Slughorn's. Ryan just shakes his head quickly, disappointed, before he follows Brendon out into hallway, letting the heavy oak doors fall shut behind them.

The apologies in Spencer's head, unsaid and necessary, echo off the high ceilings along with the low, dull sounds of slamming wood.

***

Spencer's never felt anger like this before.

He trails behind William Beckett it the long, marble corridor, the white and black stone a striking contrast to his dark mood.

"Come on, Spence," William says, low near Spencer's ear, lips ghosting lightly over the pulse point in his neck. Spencer shivers, every nerve in his body is on edge, singing, tingling. William slips long, agile fingers into his belt loop and pulls him along the corridor.

They pass a mirror, and Spencer's gaze is pulled subconsciously toward it. The pull in his gut when he sees his reflection makes him want to vomit, it's as though his insides are being wrapped tight in a vice. He looks away immediately, forcefully, after he sees his eyes flash a deep shade of green he doesn't recognize.

When they reach his bedroom, William's eyes find his, lock there, smile knowing and calculating. Spencer knows he's waiting for the moment that Spencer wakes up, comes to his senses and decides that he doesn't want to do this. William knows that it's a moment that's sure to come. Spencer, however, doesn't. The thrill of that indecision is the reason Spencer's still here.

He's spent the last couple of weeks hanging on the edge of doing something rash. Spencer's not known for taking impulsive action. He'd come to William's to get it out of his system, though there's a little voice in his head (which, incidentally, sounds irritatingly like Ryan Ross) that's telling him this is him trying to take control of his impulsive action, and that it's not going to satisfy.

Spencer ignores the voice. It is going to satisfy. It _is_ , because he's so sick of looking at certain obnoxious, clumsy, ridiculous Gryffindors and wanting to satisfy this newfound need with them.

Here is how far he gets: William's shirt, not tossed to the floor, but draped carefully over the back of an armchair, Spencer's following it. He feels the cool, pale expanse of William's back. He tastes William's smirk, cherries and mint. They fall back on William's bed, legs tangled together. William drops underneath of him like a cat, back arching and hissing sounds slipping from between his lips. He feels William's hands come up and grip his hips. That's how far he gets, and then he throws himself up and off, backwards off the bed in an ungraceful scramble.

"William," Spencer pants, keeping his distance and trying catch his breath, "William, I..."

"Fuck, Spencer," William groans, but it's a resigned sound. "If you apologize to me, I will hex you into oblivion. Do kindly just get the fuck out."

"Right," Spencer fumbles with his shirt, yanking it back over his head, nearly tripping in his haste to get out the door.

He hurries back the way he came, and this time, he doesn't let himself look into the mirror.

***

Spencer fucking hates Brendon Urie with the passion of a thousand fiery hot suns. Absolutely _loathes_ him, because he actually doesn't hate him at all. In fact, Spencer's concerned about Brendon's feelings, and it's just not good. He feels horrible. Brendon fucking Urie.

Blaise is talking about rune alignment and time travel and Draco's bitching about Potter again. Pansy's fawning over Draco, threading a hand into his hair while Theodore Nott tries, with impressive success, to read while ignoring the cacophony.

Spencer hardly realizes what he's doing when Blaise asks him a hypothetical question about the Chaldean method and Spencer blurts out, "Oh for Merlin's sake," and springs up from his chair to go find Brendon.

He's harder to find than he looks. Eventually he ends up in the library, and he spots Brendon across the wide room, partially obscured behind a tall, dust-laden bookcase. Jon's with him.

Despite the fact that Spencer is the world's biggest asshole, Brendon's eyes light up when they see Spencer stalking towards him. He seems to quash it quickly, though, arranging his features into something more somber. It's a look that's all wrong on Brendon, and Spencer wishes they could skip the facade.

A dark bloom of purple and blue surrounds Brendon's left eye, something that even Brendon's usual apathetic exuberance can't conceal. Knowing he's the cause makes Spencer's stomach turn sickeningly.

"Brendon," Spencer says as he approaches, shaking his head so that his bangs fall out of his eyes, "Could I have a word?"

Jon sits up a little straighter in his chair. His eyes narrow slightly, and Spencer raises a hand to say he comes in peace. Jon doesn't relax.

"Go ahead." Brendon's voice is even, and he folds his arms over his chest.

Spencer struggles to stay where he is, tries so very hard not to turn around and leave the room. He knows he deserves it. "Alone?"

Brendon glances beside him and then back at Spencer. "No, I think here is just fine."

"I apologize." Spencer says, flat out and sincere. "I don't usually resort to violence and... I hurt your feelings, and I should not have done that. I can't say that it wasn't my intention to, because it was, but it was inconsiderate of me. That's not... I'm not really like that. I promise you, I am not like that. I apologize."

Spencer stops, lets his hands drop to his sides in the following silence. Brendon's eyes meet his, lock on, and it's as if he's searching for something inside of Spencer. Maybe he finds it, because he's nodding shortly once, eyes quiet and aware, before he breaks out into his signature grin. "Thank you, Spencer Smith." Brendon says, "It means a lot to me. I forgive you."

Spencer's heart is beating a thousand times a minute, and he's so relieved, drinks Brendon's smile up like it's air and he's drowning. He takes a step back towards the door.

"That's..." he starts, stumbles, "that's. Good. Good, I'll just. Sorry, again. I've got to. Thanks, the door is just... yeah, goodbye."

Spencer's out in the hallway, his steps echoing off the floor before he mentally slaps a palm to his forehead. He makes his way back to the great hall, Brendon's blinding smile replaying itself insufferably through Spencer's head.

The force with which he's propelled into the east wing bathroom surprises him, catches him off guard. He only gets a second to thank Merlin that the bathroom is deserted before he's shoved back against the door.

"Brendon," he gasps, tightening his fingers in the shorter boy's robes, "what are you..."

"Shut up." Brendon says, licking his lips before slamming his mouth to Spencer's. He tastes the aluminum tang of blood, and then all he can do is close his eyes, thread his fingers further into Brendon's robe and pull him closer. Their lips crash together, biting and pushing, until Brendon seems to realize that Spencer's not fighting it.

It gets better, then, ridiculously better than anything has the right to be. Brendon's mouth slides softly, giving and taking, lips spit-slick, coaxing embarrassing sounds from deep inside Spencer's chest.

"Yeah, that's..." Brendon says to himself, shaking his head as he takes a minute step back. His breath comes hard, Spencer can feel his chest heave underneath his own. "Okay. Okay?"

Spencer can't really speak, can only find the strength to nod, so he does, though he's not sure why. Things have just ventured from the "possibly could still be okay" to the "holy fuck, definitely, definitely not okay" phase, so he has no idea where the nod came from beside the faintest notion in his head that the nod might lead to more of Brendon's lips on his.

***

Spencer skirts around Brendon for the next few days, panic slowly building every time he walks down a corridor and then cresting if he gets a glimpse of Brendon. He never sticks around long enough to find out if Brendon's avoiding him back, but it's a fair bet that he isn't, seeing as how he's always lingering just outside the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons or Spencer's potions class.

He's full-out avoiding Brendon, and the fact that he doesn't really want to makes it even more tedious than it would otherwise be.

He isn't avoiding Ryan, which turns out to be a mistake when Ryan asks him for help with his Ancient Runes theme. Spencer turns up in the empty classroom, and then promptly tries to turn back around when he sees Brendon standing beside Ryan, arms folded around him, brow arched.

Ryan steps around Spencer and blocks the door before Spencer can make his feet move, as preoccupied as he is with the way Brendon's bottom lip is caught between his teeth.

"Okay, my job here is done, you two have fun." Ryan catches Spencer's eye, and it's half-apology and half defiance.

"I hate you." Spencer mutters. He hasn't felt this self-conscious since first year's flying lessons.

Ryan calls, "nothing new about that!" back over his shoulder, before the classroom door closes behind him, leaving Spencer alone. With Brendon. In an empty room. There goes all his careful planning.

"You're an idiot." Brendon says, flatly, taking a step forward. Spencer doesn't respond, just nods. He knows when defending himself will be helpful, and this isn't one of those times.

Spencer lets his arms slide around Brendon's waist, pushes his nose into Brendon's cheek, nuzzles. Breathes him in. Brendon smells like soap and sandalwood, slightly sweet like the sugar quills he carries in his robes.

Everything is slow motion, careful. Spencer knows there's a choice he's making here that goes way past whether or not to kiss Brendon.

Brendon's trembling just a little, Spencer thinks he's probably hoping that Spencer doesn't notice. He does notice, though, and it just makes him grip harder. Brendon's hands come up and press flat against Spencer's back, firmly.

"What are you doing to me?" Spencer whispers the words into Brendon's skin, lets his lips drag there, at the corner of Brendon's mouth. He presses a soft kiss in the same spot. Brendon turns his head, not even noticeably, but it's enough and their lips catch and linger, slow and firm.

When they pull back, it's not very far, and Spencer knows he's made his decision.

"So," Brendon is breathless, hands tentative, everywhere, "your place or mine?"

Spencer suddenly gets this hilarious scene in his head of he and Brendon walking into the Slytherin common room, hand in hand. Except it's not so much hilarious as terrifying.

Brendon must catch the look on his face, because he laughs and shakes his head as he pulls Spencer down the hallway to Gryffindor tower.

***

Spencer casts Muffliato himself, tossing his wand to the side as soon as it's done. It's not that he doesn't trust Brendon to do it, it's just that he's never been one for taking risks. He surveys the closed curtains with an appraising eye, searching his brain for things he may have missed or extra precautions he could take. It's then that he notices Brendon smirking mockingly from his position at the head of the bed.

He's all spread out, buttons casually undone, hair sticking up in several directions from when Spencer had pushed him unceremoniously through the bed curtains. "Are you finished yet?" Brendon asks, rolling first his eyes, and then his hips. "I'm sort of waiting, here."

Spencer fights down the urge to growl and, without a second thought to whether any wandering Gryffindor might walk in on them, he crawls delicately over Brendon's relaxed form.

And Spencer James Smith V, the patron saint of careful consideration, stops thinking.

***

Spencer whimpers, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as Brendon's lips trail over his stomach.

"Just," Spencer pants, open mouthed and gasping, "touch me, _please_."

Brendon's grin is slow and lazy. "You sure you can handle me touching you with my _muggle born_ hands?"

"Fuck." Spencer manages, hips hitching up as Brendon lifts himself up and off.

***

Spencer's always been content with his life, his friends and his school, so he's never really mourned his lack of romantic pursuits. His single status was voluntary.

Now that he has Brendon, he sees cracks where his happiness used to live, voids that now seem endless. He didn't know he was missing anything, and now that he knows, he can't believe he could ever have suffered it.

***

They each sit at the end of their rows in Charms, five feet of an isle separating them. It's the closest they've ever been in public. Slytherin and Gryffindor, respectively.

They meet in abandoned hallways, in the room of requirement, taking the form of a place to stash your darkest secrets.

Brendon gives his laughter away freely, which is convenient since Spencer can't get enough of it. The way Brendon's eyes squinch up, the way throws his head back... Spencer finds himself seeking it out all the time. Spencer laughs when he's around Brendon, too. He feels like he can be himself. The first few times he lets his guard down, he feels tiny panic start to bubble in his stomach, he expects chaos. It doesn't come, though, and Spencer's learning that with Brendon, there are no secrets, no act.

Other couples hold hands, but Spencer feels victory when his shoulder brushes Brendon's when their paths cross on their way to a Quidditch match.

Later, Spencer tries to pretend that he doesn't notice Brendon's dismay at the lack of public affection.

"It'd be nice if, you know, you could... I mean. Sorry." Brendon winces, and buries his face in the crook of Spencer's neck.

"No, Brendon. I can't... fuck." Spencer clings tighter, wishes thoughts could be transferred by osmosis. "I know you're a hand-holding kind of guy, but I just. I can't... I can't."

Brendon pulls back, nods. He smiles, but his eyes don't light up the way Spencer knows they do when he _really_ smiles.

"I can't." Spencer says, again, bringing his hands to cup Brendon's face. He tips it up so that Brendon's eyes meet his. "I can't. But I _want_ to."

Brendon presses his lips to Spencer's, quick, careful. "I know," he says, before he pulls away.

***

The snow starts to fall, and the bombs start to drop. Figurative bombs, of course, because this is not that kind of war. Newspaper headlines that light up Brendon's face cause Spencer's heart to sink. The morning the print reads _Abaddon Greengrass Captured And In Azkaban! Wizarding World's Cry For Justice Answered!_ , Brendon goes to Hogsmeade for a celebratory butterbeer while Spencer stands in the common room watching Daphne Greengrass pack her trunk and whisper her goodbyes through uncontrollable sobbing fits.

Spencer doesn't know if the papers are true, or if Daphne's father is in fact guilty. Abaddon Greengrass could have apparated to Spencer himself, in the flesh, and told him that he had the entire ministry under imperius and Spencer would still feel the exact same way; completely and utterly lost.

***

They had discussed their Christmas plans, and while the idea of having hours and hours together with no interruptions or distractions from judgmental classmates appealed, Spencer couldn't seem to find a proper venue. Taking Brendon back to the Smith manor remained out of the question, and when asked about Spencer visiting Brendon at Brendon's London home, Brendon shook his head vehemently.

"No, Spencer. No way." he insisted, all his usual humour absent from his voice. Spencer hadn't pushed the matter, and they had been forced to go their separate ways for the Christmas holiday.

It goes nicely for a while, if the definition of nice is Spencer laying in his bed for days on end, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the name of the paint colour was.

Spencer knows that it's rude to show up uninvited. If he knows this, it falls to reason that he also know that it's ruder still to show up when someone specifically tells you not to. These are things that Spencer knows, but Spencer's just recently discovered the feeling of being without Brendon Urie for weeks at a time, and this knowledge is new and certainly more pressing.

Brendon's never been bothered by anybody's lack of manners, so Spencer decides it's safe. Afterall, it was Brendon who'd given Spencer his address in the first place. This is as much logical thinking as Spencer gets done before he spins on the spot and apparates to Brendon's.

Even though Spencer knows quite a bit about manners and things, there are apparently things that Spencer does not know. As a room around him spins into focus, Spencer's eyes settle on the broken sofa, the dim candlelight, and the sparsely decorated Christmas tree. It seems that the things Spencer does not know are a little more important than those that he does.

"Spencer?" Brendon jumps a little as Spencer comes into view.

Spencer teeters, catching his balance even as he takes in the apartment around him. The muggle television set. The empty take-away containers.

"Spence, I'm..." Brendon trails off, before finally just crossing his arms in defiance.

Spencer's mouth, having been previously agape, closes softly into a firm line as he sets his gaze on Brendon. He had told Spencer that everything in his life was fine. He lied.

Brendon's arms are wrapped tightly around him. His face is still in the flickering candlelight, in the glow of the few Christmas bulbs that are strewn about the room. "My parents, they... they kicked me out. When they found out... years ago."

"Fuck," Spencer breathes, the muggle curse rolling off his tongue, "fuck, Brendon."

"Merry Christmas?" Brendon offers, but Spencer barely hears him, because he's gripping Brendon's arm, pulling him up from the couch and spinning on the spot. The wind starts to shriek, the world starts to spin, but Spencer doesn't notice, because his world's been spinning ever since he found Brendon sitting in a dump of an apartment, all alone on Christmas eve.

The arrive a heartbeat later in the gardens of the Smith manor, where Brendon falls to his knees and starts to dry heave. Spencer kneels beside him and waits it out, rubbing his back. Spencer's been apparating since long before he had a license, but Brendon obviously doesn't have as much experience.

While Brendon catches his breath, Spencer takes a moment to let what he's done sink in. He's brought his boyfriend home on Christmas eve, without warning his mother. He's brought his Gryffindor boyfriend home. He's brought his Gryffindor, muggle-born boyfriend home. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Spencer thinks that maybe Brendon's not the only one about to be sick.

"Spence," Brendon's eyes are wide when he sits up, glancing around the garden worriedly, "Do you know what you're doing, here?"

Spencer doesn't even have time to pull off cool and collected. All he can feel is a renewed swell of anger when he thinks about Brendon alone on Christmas.

"You didn't tell me you had nobody to... I would have... I never thought you..." Spencer hisses out little snippets of sentences, unable to finish a thought.

Brendon's suddenly a tiny thing that needs to be protected. "Sorry," he whispers.

"For Merlin's sake, Brendon, don't apologize! Just, come on." Spencer pulls his arm roughly. They stalk across the moor and through the front hedges of the Smith estate, the wards letting Spencer and Brendon both through without hesitation.

***

It all goes swimmingly. Ginger Smith welcomes Brendon into her home, has a place set for him between Ryan and Spencer, and asks him questions about his ambitions to become an Auror, living in London and his family. The questions aren't rude, she's thoughtful, curious and charming, and Spencer can tell that Brendon feels comfortable.

When they settle into the den to open gifts, there are some for Brendon, and Spencer realizes that his mother has used her questions to determine what Brendon would most like for Christmas. Brendon's eyes light up, he refuses the gifts, but Ginger insists, and Brendon hugs the muggle I-pod to his chest like he's never held anything so precious. He's also got an empty journal, and what Spencer knows to be a Peruvian protection charm on a chain. Brendon loops it over his neck and beams.

Spencer watches his mother be kind, polite and loving, and by the end of the night, Brendon's eyes are a little misty. He thinks Spencer's mom is one of the greatest people on earth. Spencer, however, knows better.

"Well," Ginger says, setting her empty whiskey decanter on the table and standing up from her chair, "I really must excuse myself. Brendon, it's been lovely meeting you."

She walks gracefully to the door, pausing when she reaches it.

"Spencer, darling. A word in the sitting room?" Ginger's eyes are firm, and Spencer knows immediately that it isn't a question.

They walk slowly, the thick air tangible around Spencer, dread making his throat sticky. He waits for his mother to begin, though he readies his arguments in Brendon's defense.

Gingelania Hepzibah Smith looks at Spencer slowly, her eyes level. Spencer knows her well enough to know that she is a far cry from the calm she's exuding. "Spencer, I care about you very much. I am not going to tell you about this boy's bloodlines, because I trust you are astute enough to have discerned what my concerns would be there."

She doesn't wait for Spencer to acknowledge the words, just reaches for an arm. "In these times, Spencer, it's not just a matter of what your bloodline is. Nor does it matter that I disapprove of your relations with this boy. What matters, Spencer," here she drops her voice almost to a whisper, a hint of tone in the dead air, "is that _he_ disapproves. And for you to do something which falls into that category is suicide."

"The question isn't what is right and what is wrong. The choice here is between life and death. I hope I haven't raised a son who's fool enough to choose wrongly based on a adolescent whim."

"For Merlin's sake, Spencer. He's had his Christmas. In doing so, he's endangered us all. I believe it's time for Brendon to go home."

Later, Brendon will recount it as the best Christmas he's ever had. Spencer won't remember it quite like that.

***

Spencer can easily count the number of times that Gabe Saporta has talked to him. It would take him exactly no fingers, because it's never happened, not even once.

Gabe is a Slytherin prefect who has been in his last year since Spencer started at Hogwarts, a guy with so many rumours flying around him that it's hard to keep them all straight. Spencer does know some things that are true, however. He's never once lost a house point, can speak fluid parseltongue and fraternizes with Vicky T, the young and beautiful divination professor. Also, Gabe Saporta? Is the last living heir of Salazar Slytherin.

They've been back at school for a month, when he looks over his shoulder in the Slytherin common room and comes eye to eye with Gabe. Spencer swallows slowly, arches an eyebrow. The common room is suddenly, suspiciously empty save for he and Saporta.

Gabe studies his face for moments, he doesn't blink once. Spencer is extremely proud that he doesn't flinch away from the appraisal. Finally, Gabe's mouth turns up at one corner, barely, so small that Spencer almost doesn't notice.

"You need to decide where your loyalties lie, Spencer Smith." he says slowly, before he turns and walks towards the door. He turns back around, halfway, throws Spencer a glance over his shoulder before he leaves the room. "I'm not going to be the last one to tell you to make the choice."

As soon as he's gone, the common room is filled again. Spencer doesn't believe for a moment that the fact that it was empty when Gabe Saporta wanted to question him was a coincidence. His suspicions are confirmed when Blaise raises an eyebrow at him from across the room.

Spencer waves him off and retires to his dorm. He's supposed to meet Brendon in the library before curfew. He falls asleep instead.

***

A war never seems like it should be labeled a war until after. Spencer's waited for years for a war that everybody had promised him would come, only to realize that it had come, suddenly. It had crept up behind him while he waited. He was in the middle of it. There had been no official whistle, no flag signifying it's start, and yet here it was, in his home and in his school.

***

In the metaphor that uses black and white to describe dichotomies, Spencer has always gotten a little lost. If it had been left up to the majority of the wizarding world, the colors that describe the two entities of good and evil would be as follows; every other color and green.

Where most infants are brought home from the hospital to bright rooms and pastel colors, Spencer's brought home to a nursery of deep oak and emerald garnish. His onesies had been lime, the balloons at his fifth birthday party, jade.

He'd believed the pure-bred gospel, hadn't even thought to question his mother or father on any point, until the moment he met Draco Malfoy.

He's five, and Lucius and his father escape to the study, leaving Spencer staring into a tiny, thin face with a tiny little turned up nose. In twenty minutes, Draco Malfoy is pointing a finger at Spencer's favorite house elf and claiming that he'd been bitten. Spencer's five, and he's still pretty sure that house elves don't bite. He's positive that Draco's outburst has everything to do with the fact that Spencer refused to share his peppermint sticks. And he really, really wants to break Draco's fingers off.

After that, he thinks things through. "Draco will be one of your best friends," his mother had said in what Spencer had later come to recognize as wishful thinking, "He's a wonderful little guy. Comes from a wonderful family." Because his mother is _wrong_ , his parent's are wrong, and Spencer begins to see it everywhere.

Brendon isn't black or white or green. Brendon is uncompromisingly blinding sunshine, every color that isn't green mixed together. Brendon wouldn't even begin to know what green looked like; he knows this because Brendon looks at Spencer, and he stays.

Because while Spencer looks in the mirror and doesn't think in terms of colors, sometimes what the world sees is more important. And green is green.

***

Jon hands him the photograph, though it's crinkled around the edges like Jon's carried it around with him for a while. Spencer takes it from him and looks.

His face is calm, quiet, like he hasn't seen for a long time. His lips are bright red, set in a thin line that's for once unemotional. Tiny explosions of yellow spark across the upper right-hand corner, and it occurs to Spencer that they're his mother's fireflies. The sky is blue, especially where it reflects in the lake where Spencer can see it behind his shoulder. And everything, everything is purple; the shadows where the grass should be, the space between Spencer's hand and the table, his eyes. Everything is bright splashes of still color. Nothing is green.

"It's why I like muggle photgraphy." Jon's voice startles Spencer's eyes away from the picture.

"Because you took my picture?" Spencer snorts, trying to hand the photograph back. He suddenly wants it out of his hands.

"No", Jon says, folding his arms inside his soft yellow hoodie, "Because sometimes, you have to slow things down to see the truth in them."

***

They're the best of the pure-blood elite, they're all miles above the level they'd have to be at to believe that staring is acceptable. They do stare, though, when William slides into the common room after Christmas break wearing a sweater with sleeves that reach his wrists.

William "What Do You Mean, Wearing No Shirt Under My Robes Isn't Acceptable, Professor?" Beckett. William, who struts around shirtless in every free moment he's got.

Blaise nudges Spencer softly with an elbow, and Spencer breaks the silence by stepping up.

"William," Spencer purrs, tries to sound like he's teasing, but his eyes stay steady, serious. "I've been thinking about your proposition..."

Spencer hears tittering from the back of the group, nervous laughter, people clinging to a reason to break the awkward silence.

"Your many propositions." Spencer amends. He leans in closer to William, close enough so that only he can hear, wraps his fingers carefully around William's wrist. "Do you want to come upstairs with me?"

William pulls his wrist back as if he's been burned, fingers clutching at the material of his left sleeve. He avoids Spencer's eyes, and Spencer barely hears him whisper "not tonight, Spence", before he disappears from the common room.

"That's that, then." Blaise's voice comes out of nowhere. Spencer's shrugs, tries to play the apathy card he's perfected. Mostly, though, he can't breath.

***

They're not so lucky that they have the luxury of laying in bed for long. They steal short minutes of being wrapped in eachother, Brendon's breathing slow, eyes quiet for a change.

"We've been avoiding it." Spencer says suddenly, watching Brendon cringe at the break in the momentary rapture. "I need to tell you something."

Brendon rises from the sheets, letting the sheets fall from him. "Okay," he says, "I'm ready. Shoot."

Brendon's face is grim, eyes completely devoid of their usual sparkle. Spencer never wants to see that look on Brendon again, and it breaks his heart to know that it's one he's probably going to be seeing more often.

"I'm going to run." Spencer says, making sure his eyes never leave Brendon's.

Brendon blinks twice, his mouth drops open. "You..." He laughs suddenly, a great, ringing sound, and suddenly Spencer's got a lap full of Brendon Urie.

"Spencer Smith, Spencer Smith!"

It doesn't last long, because Brendon opens his mouth and says, "I'm staying to fight." Says, "Spencer, it's the right thing to do." Doesn't say, "stay with me", but says, "everything will be okay."

"That sort of optimism wasn't part of a Smith upbringing." Spencer sighs, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. He says optimism because when Brendon's got his legs wrapped around him like that, he can't bring himself to say stupidity.

***

Spencer's made a lot of choices in his life, many of them concerning clothing or reading material. He's been anticipating having to make this one for years, silent anxiety creeping up on him on long nights, wondering whether he'd be strong enough to choose sanity over lineage, over family. When the time finally comes, deciding to follow Theodore and Blaise through the portrait and down the tunnel is easier than picking out the proper pair of shoes for one of his mother's functions.

He only turns his head once, gazes back towards the castle, unsure, and it's not for any of the reasons he ever thought it would be.

It's because when he scans the determined, desperate faces of the other students who had refused to choose a side, Brendon isn't one of them. The fact that Spencer didn't expect him to be doesn't ease the ferocious pounding of his heart.

***

He can't go home and he can't go back to Hogwarts, so he's got nowhere to go. Blaise and Theodore run for the next train, to meet up with Blaise's mother somewhere, Peru, Scandinavia, neither of them really know where exactly. Spencer has nowhere to go, so he sits still.

On a barstool in Hogsmeade, drinking firewhiskey from a dirty flask that somebody hands to him. He's the only Slytherin there.

He can't go forward and he can't go back, so he waits as the sun sets, a faint reddish colour that reminds him of Brendon and blood, all at once.

***

There's no smoke, no barren battlefield, just a lot of mess that somebody has to clean up. Spencer doesn't count himself amoung those who feel guilty about abandoning Harry Potter and the cause that everybody thought was hopeless. He goes back with them anyway, and cleans up. He picks up beads, bodies, broken slices of wood that used to be things he recognized, chairs, tables, portrait frames. He picks things up and can't stop his eyes from darting around at the wounded. Brendon's not there, but he sees Jon Walker cradling an arm in a sling. He looks down when Jon nods at him, not ashamed, but unwilling to hear any news about Brendon. He wants to see for himself.

All appearances of the apathy he's been maintaining vanish when Ryan Ross hobbles around a corner, leaning heavily on Weasley and Granger. The scarf around his neck is charred, his leg looks a little mangled, but he's smiling. Spencer crosses the hallway in seconds, lets his hands pat over Ryan's body in a quick assessment of damages before pulling him into a hug.

"Why, Spencer Smith," Ryan's laughing as he draws back, "I had no idea you cared." The lie isn't lost on Spencer; Ryan's one of the only ones who ever knew he did.

"It's not that he doesn't care, it's just that he's not a reckless fucking dumbass like the rest of us are, Ry." the voice comes from a nearby doorway, and when Brendon steps into view, Spencer feels the tears start to prickle at the corner of his eyes.

"Fuck," Spencer breathes, doesn't even pretend to hesitate. He flings himself at Brendon, grabs his jaw in both hands and kisses him, kisses him like he's been drowning and Brendon's kiss is the air he breathes. It might as well be.

"I thought," Brendon says when Spencer lets go, not all the way, but so that Brendon can speak. "I thought you were going to fight with _them_." He whispers it, like the biggest secret he's ever had was that his faith in Spencer had wavered and that Spencer was worthy of knowing it.

"Brendon," Spencer trails off, shakes his head, "Brendon, never. I'm not them. I'm _not_."

"Oh, Spencer Smith," Brendon laughs, "I really do know. I know."

***

The green is like a disease that will never quite go away. Spencer didn't pick a side, which Spencer clings to as a defense, one that's perfectly understandable from any sane person's point of view. Still, though, Spencer _didn't pick a side_ , which some people seem to look at as a strike against him. It's a compromise they've come to, a large one for Spencer, and one that's not quite large enough for Brendon. Still, Brendon stays.

Brendon stays because he believes in a greater good, he believes that deep down, Spencer really is good. Spencer doesn't know whether that's true, but he does know that Brendon chooses a stance and then goes for it, all in. Spencer figures he's pretty lucky.

He doesn't know whether he can change, but he takes a job at Gringott's and he moves all of his things from the Smith manor into a large flat he shares with Brendon. They decorate it in deep browns and beiges, neither of them daring to suggest any other colour. Colours are too messy, blurring. They have Blaise and Harry Potter over in the same week, though not on the same day, because even though Brendon suggests it, Spencer figures Brendon wouldn't be so keen on having a member of his Auror team hexed in their home.

Spencer doesn't know if he's good or if he's bad, or even if there's really a proper distinction between the two. He knows the sides, the choices. He knows the pros and cons, and he chooses the only thing he's sure of. He chooses Brendon.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at seedyapartment @ livejournal


End file.
